


A Dead Man is Never Alone

by InternetDork



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Drugs, Sad Ending, Short One Shot, only a little bit though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18352412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InternetDork/pseuds/InternetDork





	A Dead Man is Never Alone

Harsh inhales filled the otherwise silent room. Shakey exhales just barely made themselves known. Breathy laughter hit his face flinging small traces of saliva on his cheek. Every strangled breath, every wet cough that dampened his ear, it all hurt. It was like a fire burning, flames tearing through his skin eating his flesh. It managed to burn more than the pain in his leg. No part of him was numb no matter how much he longed for it. He had to be the most awake, the most alert while his friend laid next to him barely able to move. He stayed keeping his handheld tight as he waited fearing every inhale he heard would be the last. He was a terrible oncologist a terrible boyfriend he couldn't just do this. He had no right to lay there and laugh as he died. He shouldn't he high as a kite on drug store pain killers, in a cheap motel room coughing his lungs out. Touching his face shouldn't feel like making contact with an open flame. Laughing shouldn't make his lungs feel on fire or his chest to ache. His clothing shouldn't be damp with sweat. None of this should be happening.

He should be sat at his desk his hair perfectly in place wearing a stupid tie. His smile should light up the whole room, and his laughter should fill the air. He should be flirting with nurses and curing his stupid cancer kids. His hand should be warm, not cold and limp it should be.

Fingers pressed down hard on his wrist. He should be able to find a pulse. He silently begged for rough hand to shake him awake and pull him out of this sick nightmare. Tears dripped down onto Wilson. It wasn't Wilson anymore. His eyes were dark, no brightness in now dull eyes. There were no shakey coughs or breathy laughs just silence. Still air, a dark room, loneliness, he wasn't going to stay alone though. A dead man is never alone.


End file.
